


Bonds

by Huehxolotl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Before During and After Stormblood, Canon Compliant, Expanding Canon, Gen, Lyse-centric, Non-sequential
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: After years of fighting, years of living in the shadow of her sister's name, Lyse Hext sets about making herself a home in her motherland.(Short fics about Lyse and her life in Gyr Abania. All different povs)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Lyse Hext

**Author's Note:**

> Motivated entirely by the spite of SE leaving Ala Mhigo in a perpetual state of war. Also, if SE isn't going to love Gyr Abania, I guess it's up to us to flesh it out!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After visiting Ala Gannha, Lyse tries to brood

Lyse pokes at the burnt firewood with a stick, finding a sort of simple peace in the way the embers crackle and shift. The fire and night both are dying, but though she has been sitting here since midnight, she cannot find it in herself to return to sleep. If one could call her tossing and turning “sleep.”

“I find that a warm breakfast is always comforting after a night spent brooding.”

Meffrid’s voice startles her so much she nearly falls off the stool she had borrowed. He doesn’t laugh, but there is an amused glint in his eyes that reminds of her Minfilia when she’s struggling to stay serious.

She wants to say that she isn’t brooding, but admitting that she had a nightmare sounds even worse. Instead, she settles for taking the plate of food with a sigh.

Meffrid considers her acceptance of the food -and the declaration that she is brooding- as an invitation to sit next to her. “You’re still thinking about what that boy said, aren’t you?”

_“Don’t you dare speak like you’re one of us!”_

“When we left Gyr Abania, we, like you, went to Gridania to plead for help,” she says, staring at her food intently. “They were so quick to deny us shelter that we only had time to stock up and sleep for a night before we had to leave. After that, we spent moons in the wilds, pressing on westward for lack of any other direction to go. It seemed like a lifetime of fear, aching feet, nightmares, and hunger.” 

Though it was only a relatively short period of time, the memories of her time in the wilds remain vivid. Learning to live off the land, surrounded by fearful, angry, desperate countrymen, spending cold nights curled up at her sister’s side. There were never enough blankets to keep them warm. Never enough food to go around. Never enough medicines to fight off illness. Never enough of anything but misery and nightmares. Three of them died of food poisoning, two left one night and never returned, two were mauled so badly they could barely identify the bodies, and five of them were lost to disease. 

“We eventually made it to Sharlayan, but there were only half of us left, and winter was going strong. Like Gridania, they declared us unwelcome and threatened to make us leave. ...It was the first time I ever saw Yda lose her temper.”

 _“Do you think we_ want _to be here, begging for your damn scraps on our hands and knees? We have lost_ everything _, and you sit here in your goddamn pristine white chairs with your sparkling buildings and judge us for being dirty and starved? We have endured more pain than you heartless bastards could ever imagine! Rhalgr take you, and your damned city too!”_

Yda had stormed away from the Archons that met them outside the city, and though she wasn’t the oldest, the strongest, or the smartest, she was _Yda Hext_ , and where she went, the rest of them followed. Slowly, painfully, because they had been so _tired_ , because their time wandering had felt like a slow, agonizing death, and this second rejection felt like the final nail in the coffin.

But not little Lyse.

The anger in Yda’s voice, the callousness of the Archons, and perhaps the fever she was suffering from kept her feet glued to the stones. She couldn’t understand why no one would help them. Wasn’t that what people were _supposed_ to do? Help each other? Her young mind came to the conclusion that maybe it wasn’t that other people were wrong, but that something was wrong with _them_. Why else would no one want them?

Five year old Lyse did the only thing she could think of; she met the eyes of the oldest -and therefore smartest- Archon, and bowed. _“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at her. She’s just sad.”_ And then she ran away, choking on tears and heart heavy because she had really thought that they had found somewhere _safe_.

“If it weren’t for Louisoix Leveilleur and Papalymo, they would have never taken us in. Even so, none of us could forget that we were never really wanted. Not anywhere. Still, it was a better life than we would have had in Ala Gannha.”

Meffrid says nothing to that, perhaps lost in his own memories of his time in Gridania. He may have lingered in spite of the elemental’s rejection, but it had left his group with no choice but to fend for themselves. Gridania’s reverence for the elemental’s will meant that very, very few citizens would have dared try to help them, even after the Calamity saw the creatures withdraw almost entirely from the Shroud.

“Don’t be daft, lass,” he says when she is nearly done with the food. “You may not know _their_ pain, but you’ve plenty of your own. Enough of it, in fact, that none would blame you for asking Orella for some sleeping herbs.”

She cringes; because she hates asking the Resistance for supplies, and because she hates sleeping herbs. The tea they make tastes awful, leaves an aftertaste, and can’t be mixed with anything to improve the flavor.

Snorting at her expression, he nudges her with his elbow and says, “Don’t make that face. Go get some now, then help me bully these new recruits out of bed.”

It is with great reluctance that she forces herself to her feet and trudges to the Barber. This early in the morning, the only people she meets on the way are the chocobo handlers and their birds, who like to roam around when they aren’t eating or training. To her relief, Y’shtola is with Orella, making potions and counting their inventory.

Y’shtola perks up when she greets them, though she frowns during her own greeting. “What are you doing up?”

“You better not have food poisoning again,” Orella adds with a suspicious glare.

“No food poisoning,” she says with a sigh. As if she wants to repeat _that_ painful accident. “I just...came to ask for herbs to help with sleep.”

Before she is finished speaking, Y’shtola is already reaching for her supplies under the table. Within seconds, a container of crushed tea leaves is held out to her. “Well that spares me the trouble of chasing you myself. I thought I would have to be more forceful on the matter.”

She nearly questions why Y’shtola sounds _disappointed_ that she won’t have to resort to force, but it is forgotten when she realizes that her friend had not only noticed that she hasn’t been sleeping well, but also went out of her way to help.

_Y’shtola cares about her._

That shouldn’t be a startling revelation, not after all they have been through together. But it’s different now that she doesn’t have Yda’s mask and name. Now that she is _Lyse_. Part of her had thought that she would feel less burdened without the mask, yet she feels more lost than ever without the purpose it gave her. For all that she declared that her actions would now be done as Lyse, she’s still trying to figure out where Yda ends and Lyse starts. And if she wants to do that, she needs to figure out where she stands with the Scions, the Resistance, and Gyr Abania too.

But Y’shtola doesn’t care about her name or her mask. Y’shtola isn’t treating her any differently, or thinks of her differently. Yshtola is simply doing what she always does; scolding her for not taking care of herself properly and watching over her.

She almost reaches out to hug her friend, but her mind catches up with her body when her arm is halfway between them. Getting control of emotions, she allows herself to gently grasp Y’shtola’s hand and whisper, “What would I do without you?”

Y’shtola frowns. “...Work yourself until collapsing, at the very least,” she says after observing her carefully.

There’s a moment where she is on the verge of saying something more, a part of her _needing_ her friend to understand that she is speaking of more than tea, but she can’t bring herself to do more than smile and agree.

“Yeah. Most likely.”

Releasing her hand, she takes the tea, and, as she walks away, tells herself that she doesn’t miss the warmth of Y’shtola’s skin, or that her fingertips aren’t still tingling from the contact. She must be more tired than she thought, if holding someone’s _hand_ is enough to make her want a hug.

Still. It’s nice to know that, when everything feels so wrong and uncertain, there is someone out there who feels safe. Whether she is Yda, or Lyse, or whatever weird in-between that she is now, Y’shtola Rhul...feels a little bit like _home_.


	2. Orella Rushton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orella isn't sure if she's amused or annoyed that M'naago inadvertently poisoned Lyse.
> 
> (Takes place during Heavensward)

To be a medic in an occupied country, much less within the ranks of those who dare resist said occupation, is no easy task. There is no end to the wounded, yet barely enough medicine to keep a small _village_ healthy, much less a resistance army. She has had to become creative with her alchemical droughts, rationing her supplies and relying on the few scouts knowledgeable enough in botany to bring her raw ingredients. In spite of such setbacks, she refuses to give up, the memories of her father and brothers and many friends that she failed before giving her the strength to carry on.

If it isn’t imperials sending people to her care, it is beasts, bandits, or diseases. But she does not falter, facing her tasks with all the stubbornness and determination that any true Gyr Abanian can claim.

“Orella. How are your patients?”

She looks up from her chopping, blinking to adjust her eyes. “Commander. You ought to be sleeping,” she admonishes lightly. He never listens, but she is a healer and she cares. The least she can do is keep reminding him in hopes that, at least _once_ , he takes her advice and sleeps while it is still evening and not the early morning. “And thankfully all my patients are well for the moment. I mean to enjoy it while it lasts.”

Conrad nods, his eyes flicking toward one particular corner of the room, and she understands immediately why the man decided to visit so late.

A dedicated medic she may be, but that doesn’t stop her from snorting impatiently as she considers her two newest patients. “Yda is fine. She may never again trust M’naago to cook anything more complicated than an egg, but that is fairly wise on her part. Alpa, too, will be well. She’s practically an expert in food poisoning by now, in spite of my _repeated_ warnings to avoid anything not J’ohlmyn approved.”

The Ananta child is a frustrating creature, as most children tend to be, but children must learn eventually. Food poisoning is such a trivial illness compared to mangled limbs and torn bodies that it is almost a relief to be presented with it.

Conrad, amused at her mild complaint -and similarly relieved that she has no patients in danger- leaves her after a few short requests.

She hopes he means to sleep soon.

She knows that he won’t.

Her medicines are returned to. It’s calming, the simple actions of creating potions. In another life, one where she did not watch her father and brothers and friends all perish as they labored under the cruel command of the imperials, she might have decided to focus her career on alchemy alone. Such daydreams are of little use to her, but every now and then, she cannot help but wonder where life would have taken her, had Garlemald not decided that they needed to rule over the “savage” people of Eorzea.

“Do you...need some help?”

She nearly curses at the sudden question, and how it startled her enough that she splashed some of her potion out. She settles for cursing the lost material and gives Yda Hext a sharp, unhappy look. “Feeling better already?”

Yda shrugs, smiling sheepishly in spite of the sour tone of the question as she strolls over. “I help make potions for the Scions, you know. Granted, only when Papalymo is in a bad mood and doesn’t want to deal with me…”

The offer surprises her. None aside from the other medics have ever offered to assist in restocking her potions supply. Not that she would _trust_ any but the other medics, but that is neither here nor there. Luckily, the particular potion she is making is simple, though time consuming. Yda settles in next to her, easily keeping up with her practiced motions. She is impressed; Yda has a personality that lends observers to write her off as overeager and clumsy, but there is nothing but grace in her movements when she concentrates.

The Scion rambles about her life in Eorzea, of the sorts of concoctions that the Scions and Gridanian conjurers make use of while she works, of the several she has tried -and many of which she did not care for- and others she has seen used. There are all sorts of ailments one can pick up in a forest, and the time after the Calamity saw many suffer from unexplained diseases. While normally annoyed by chatter so early in the morning, Yda expects no input from her, and she finds the information more than interesting.

Tales of the Calamity, morbid as the topic is, are especially intriguing. Gyr Abania had not suffered from the wrath of the beast that emerged when Dalamud fell; something the imperials insisted was something Eorzea brought upon themselves. The savages of Gyr Abania, they repeatedly announced as they rounded up more unwilling conscripts from half-dead villages, should be thanking them for protecting them from primals. Absolute bullshit, every word of it. Garlemald never wanted to “protect them,” it wanted to turn them into slaves just the same as any primal turns those who are exposed to them. The empire just doesn’t like competition for power. That’s all it ever was, in her opinion.

But to hear of the devastation from the empire is one thing; to hear of it from one who fought to prevent it -how _young_ Yda must have been at the time!- and then actively assisted Gridania in the recovery efforts is entirely another. It had been all too easy for Gyr Abanians to ignore the suffering of those who ignored their own and turned away their refugees. She herself had never given it much thought, so she finds herself becoming easily taken in by Yda’s stories of complete devastation, of thousands of lives lost in one night, and many more in the years following, of the land and creatures corrupted by aether, of the tireless work it required to return Eorzea to even a _semblance_ of peace.

Her work is finished just as one of the others arrives with breakfast, marking the end of her shift. And the end of the stories, unfortunately. Yda pales at the sight of the food her replacement is kind enough to bring. Cleaning her equipment hastily -but properly, thank the gods- she disappears in search of something more palatable to her sensitive stomach.

She is more than content to eat there as she goes over the condition of their one remaining patient. There isn’t much to say, and her meal is light, but Yda is long gone by the time she’s done. Honestly. That one can’t sit still to save her life.

Conrad catches her on her way out; as she expected, he looks no more refreshed than the night before.

“She ran off to find soup and bread,” she declares before he can ask. “Give her a day of rest, and she’ll be fine.”

Neither of them pretend that he isn’t solely interested in Yda Hext, the daughter of the man who had the bravery - _stupidity_ \- to spit in the eye of the Mad King. He wants, no _needs_ Yda to be like her father, to rally what’s left of their people before their spirits and their will to fight dies. She doesn’t think Conrad will get what he wants in that regard, but she admits that she would not mind if Yda chose to join their ranks. There are few with her spirit, and far fewer with her physical strength.

Yda cannot rally an army with a raised voice and fist, but when she stands tall and thumps her chest with her fist to declare that she will be fine, that _everyone_ will be fine, it’s hard not to believe her. There’s power in that, so while Yda is not what Conrad needs at the moment, she will be _something_ great.

She can only hope the woman lives long enough to fulfill her potential.


	3. M'rahz Nunh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should M'rahz be telling embarrassing stories about his daughter to her commanding officer? Probably not.
> 
> Is that going to stop him from bonding with Lyse Hext over embarrassing stories of his daughter? Absolutely not.

“If I had known that I was going to be fighting for my life this afternoon, I would have had a bigger breakfast. And brought some knives,” M’rahz grumbles. This meeting had turned out to be far more troublesome than he expected, but at least he will have quite the story to share with the tribe tonight.

Giving his stolen spear a disgusted look, he tosses it to the floor without a second thought. The Ala Ghiri representative, a skittish little thing from the J clan, squeals and jumps half a fulm in the air when it clangs against the floor. One of the other elders snorts, but it’s not as if anyone can blame the poor girl. They had expected a fight, to be sure, but with _words,_ not godforsaken _primals_. That’s enough to make anyone’s tail twitchy.

Especially the Scion miqo’te in white, who appears to be mentally calculating dozens of ways to kill anyone within eyeshot of Hext that isn’t yet proven to be free of primal influence.

“Dad! Are you alright?”

He glances over at the entrance to see Naago doing her best to run into the throne room without _looking_ like she’s running. His daughter really is adorable, full-fledged soldier or not. It feels like only yesterday that she was begging him to let her join the Resistance. She had been so young then, and so eager to protect her countrymen from imperials.

She is not so young anymore, but her eagerness has not changed.

“Have faith, girl! It’ll take more than a few primal-addled soldiers to get the best of me!” he declares with a smirk and thump of his chest. A touch overdramatic, perhaps, but he can see how his bravado eases his girl’s fear.

“Yeah, Naago!” Commander Hext chimes in from his left. He barely manages to keep from jumping like the Ala Ghiri representative, though he’s certain his ears and tail gave away his surprise. How the bloody hell does that woman _move_ so fast? “You should have seen him! Even though he complained about using a spear-”

Oh. She heard that, did she?

“-he’s skilled enough to impress even Adders. And _believe_ me, I would know.”

The rest of Naago’s tension fades at her commander’s words, fear on her face melting into exasperation and relief. His estimation of the young Hext rises twofold in that moment. His daughter has always been the sort to fuss over the health of others; oftentimes for far longer than necessary. That Hext can put her at ease so easily says more about the level of trust between them than even the fact that Naago had allowed her to drop her tribal marker.

“Well, I wouldn’t go touting any likeness to Gridania’s pride and joy,” he says, waving his hand, “but I won’t deny that I know my way around a spear. I tried to teach Naago once upon a time, but she didn’t take to it nearly as well as she took to the bow.”

The truly pained expression that crosses his daughter’s face at the reminder of her failed attempts to learn to wield a spear almost makes him laugh. What stops him is the instantly curious hum that Hext responds with, a wordless invitation for him to elaborate.

Were he a good friend, he might be willing to spare his daughter the embarrassment of speaking of her childhood, but he is not a good friend.

He is a _father_ , and he is not willing to miss this rare chance to tease or brag about Naago to anyone outside their clan.

Turning to Hext, he leans toward her and stage whispers, “Oh, it was a _disaster_.”

“Dad!”

“Four spears were snapped, and one poor child was nearly impaled. Stabbed her own shin, too.”

"So _that's_ how she got that scar!"

Naago stomps her foot on the ground and growls at the Commander's exclamation and following giggle; not that anyone believes she is angry, as her face shines bright red. “D-don’t you two have a meeting to restart!”

While he applauds Naago’s attempts to change the topic, he disappoints her by shaking his head. “We can’t very well have a meeting with bodies and blood all over the floor. We had best wait until the mess is cleaned up before we reconvene; the smell will only get worse if we don’t.”

Naago blinks, as if just now remembering that they have just finished fighting for their lives, then turns to look at the soldiers who have already started to cover the bodies of the fallen. “Oh, right.”

Hext heaves a weary sigh, and when he glances over at her, frustration is written clearly upon her face. Now that is the expression of one who takes too much upon herself, and is feeling in over her head. He recognizes it well; he saw it reflected back at him in the waters of his home for years after his best friend and fellow nunh left the tribe. “You have a point. Maybe we should-”

“All have a meal,” interrupts the miqo’te in white. Hext yelps at the sudden appearance of her friend, and he is not ashamed -this time- to say that he is startled as well.

Those two move faster than any being has a right to. Either that, or he is really losing his edge.

No. They are most certainly too fast to be normal.

“A, a meal? Err. Uh. Yeah! That sounds great!” Hext raises her hand and points up with a smile. “I’ll just, uh, round up some soldiers to escort-”

“ _All. Of. You_.”

The miqo’te, at first glance, is faintly amused, but a closer look reveals her smile to be colder than a glacier in the middle of winter. Her arms are crossed, knuckles white as they grip her elbows, and something in her aura is _daring_ Hext to try and argue with her.

Hext swallows and continues sheepishly, “...to escort…all of us. Right.”

“Mhm. Because _you_ fought a _primal_.”

“...Yes?”

“Despite your lack of echo.”

“...Yes.”

“Which must have been quite...taxing.”

“...I. Um. Well. I’ve had… I mean. ...Yes.”

With every agreement, Hext leans further and further away from the scary one in white. Watching the exchange, observing how unnervingly similar to Hahtoa at her most dangerous the scary one is, he can’t help but lean away himself.

Women are truly the most frightening creatures to walk the land.

“We’ll be sure to send a message when all is clear.” Order given, the miqo’te turns on her heel and walks away.

The three are silent for a few moments, even Naago too intimidated to speak, though she was not included in the reprimand.

“We should do as she says. Before she considers us defiant,” he advises the young commander under his breath.

His words shock her into action, and she is quick to head to the other representatives. “Right. While they clean up, let’s all break for a meal!” Catching the dubious looks some of the more squeamish representatives give her, she immediately follows that announcement with, “I’ll pay.”

Immediately, the representatives are far more interested in the proposal.

“We’ve already fought together now. Nothing wrong with eating together,” he adds in support of the girl. Quieter, he says, “And I’ve plenty more stories about Naago.”

“ _Talk about something else!_ ”

They both ignore Naago’s command in favor of ushering out the others, grinning widely all the while.


	4. Fordola Lupis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fordola can find worse a moral compass than Lyse Hext.
> 
> Not that she will ever, EVER, admit, to anyone, that she, in some manner of speaking, looks up to the woman who locked her up.
> 
> Because she doesn't.

_He struggles against the grip of his captors, voice hoarse from his screaming and begging. His brother is on the floor, bruised and bleeding and whimpering as thrice damned imperials torture him for information. His efforts, however, waste his own energy more than that of his captors. It has been far too long since he had a proper meal, and he hasn’t enough meat on him to have much fat, much less any muscle. He is a small, brittle creature, and as his snapped wrist shows, is easily broken._

_“STOP! PLEASE! We haven’t done anything wrong! Please! Can’t you see he’s dying!”_

_The imperials jeer, mock his screaming as they continue their beating without hesitation. Finally, the pilus sighs._

_“Enough. He’s useless.”_

_For a split second, he thinks that they will escape from this alive. For a split second, his brother’s eyes meet his. For a split second, he has hope._

_But then one of the conscripts pulls out a gun, and he hardly has time to feel terror before the trigger is pulled._

_One shot to the head and his brother, the one who shared his blanket on cold nights, the one who stayed with him when he was sick, the one who taught him letters and numbers, the one who held him when their parents fell victim to the plague, is gone._

_In that one moment, his world shatters, and the only thing left to him is absolute despair, and absolute_ hatred _._

Fordola holds her head and tries not to lose the contents of her stomach on her cot. The latest round of guards have no personal grudge against her -something she suspects is Hext’s doing- but that doesn’t make the effects of her “gift” easier to bear. Sure, it’s a relief that the hatred she endures is no longer specifically targeted at her, yet none joined the Resistance because they had an _easy_ life.

She has watched countless loved ones be tortured, or waste away from starvation, or be hauled away to never be seen again. She has lived through countless memories of _being_ tortured, or fighting gnawing hunger in her belly, or working nearly to death in a castrum.

It’s enough to make her lose her mind on some days. Most days, really.

The door to her cell opens, the noise of the heavy doors ungodly loud in the small cell. Though the alliance took plenty of prisoners in the battle for Ala Mhigo, she had been given the room in the far back of the detention center; far enough away that she cannot hear the whispers of the other prisoner’s souls.

That, too, is likely the result of the interference of the woman that now stands before her.

“Again?” Hext sighs. “Good thing I’ve brought some tea and potions. I have it on good authority that they help with the aftereffects of the Echo’s visions.”

She refuses to acknowledge the tea, or potions, or Hext. Period. Despite several battles during the war and several visits after, she has yet to decide how to feel about the infuriatingly persistent commander.

Hext, as usual, cares little for her lack of response, wasting no time in filling the silence with her updates on the progress that the villages are making, or what the council has been up to, or really anything she feels like talking about. All that, unfortunately, is offered with a large helping of unrelated and useless information.

Lyse Hext is a woman that enjoys conversation, but is used to being ignored.

That revelation, of course, came courtesy of her Echo. With Hext, it’s never overwhelming. Short, mild visions here and there, often solely to emphasize whatever topic she is speaking of. If she hadn’t known any better, she would think that the visions are _purposeful_.

Part of her wishes she had an expert on hand to question, but from what she was told, her own manufactured Echo is wholly different from its natural form. From what she has figured out herself, the visions come to her in a way that resembles the owner’s personality.

Most soldiers are wont to brood over their losses, using their anger to fuel them in war. Those are the most common sort she has dealt with thus far. Painful they may be, but it’s easy to drag her mind away from the emotions they bring. Some soldiers hide their pain well, distracting themselves with work. Those ones will stand guard for days without a hint of a vision, until something sets them off and she is dragged into their worst memories. Those are the visions that make her sick, as all the repressed emotions are dumped on her with the unforgiving force of a griffon’s gale.

And then there’s Hext.

For a woman who talks as much as she does, Hext has never once shared personal information about herself. She has read the oddly sparse file that the Garleans had kept on "Hext, female," but were it not for the Echo, she would know no more than her last name -a rather famous one, certainly- and that she was once a Scion.

The Echo shows her years spent training and training and training until her bones cracked or her skin split from the force of her aether, all in hopes of taking back their home someday -but mostly in hopes of escaping the judgmental eyes of Sharlayan as soon as possible-

A father, barely remembered.

A sister, dearly loved but rarely present, until she was gone for good.

Years spent with a false name, an aching void in her heart that was a family lost, and the nagging, aching feeling that she was not nor will ever be good enough to live up to her father and sister’s name. A feeling that was not helped by the often dismissive Scions, whose intellect was far above Hext’s; though they still managed to be an idiotic, reckless group.

( _She swears that she isn’t annoyed with them on behalf of the woman she hates, but she has always been good at lying to herself._ )

The world burning in ash and flame as a raging dragon unleashed thousands of years of fury upon Eorzea, the prayers she writ upon her soul in their last act of desperation, and the painful cost of stopping it. Years spent rebuilding, helping countless recover from their own misery and suffering.

A makeshift family betrayed once, twice. Good friends lost again, and again, and again, and again. Every person important to her threatened or murdered.

A mentor, a confidant and family all the ways that mattered, sacrificing his life for nothing more than an extra few days and blind hope.

( _How can someone who_ feels _as deeply as Lyse Hext continue to have hope after all her suffering? How can she still be so kind when she has seen so much darkness?_ )

All important things, loaded with emotion and years of trauma. They do not tear into her mind, or overtake her own emotions as all other visions do, but they linger. By the gods, do they linger. Within her cell, with nothing to do, she finds her mind constantly returning to her visions; not _always_ Hext’s, but more often than not. They’re some of the precious few visions she has experienced that are not steeped in hatred. Loss, yes, but she will take loss over hatred any day.

The only thing hatred has ever given her is her friend’s blood on her hands, a prison cell, and a fractured mind.

She will not admit it to anyone, much less herself, that she is dreading the day she sees herself in Hext’s visions. To do so would be to admit that she, perhaps, _cares_ about Hext’s opinion.

She doesn’t.

Obviously.

She’s just...tired of seeing herself take a leading role in everyone’s misery. It’s no less than she deserves, but with every visit from Hext, she can’t help but wonder if _this_ will be the day that her Echo reveals how much Hext hates her.

...Not that she cares if Hext hates her.

Obviously.

“They really are a bunch of mother hens, as the Gridanians call them. Always telling me to eat and sleep like a normal person. What even is normal, anyway?” Hext grumbles. She has moved on from the state of the realm to mild complaints about her subordinates being -rightfully- concerned about how hard she works herself, it seems.

After all she has seen from the Echo, she personally thinks the soldiers of the Reach should be grateful that Hext hasn’t skipped sleeping and eating _entirely_.

Her head aches, and, cursing mentally, she closes her eyes, takes a slow, deep breath and prepares herself.

_The soup bubbles slowly in the pot, her slow stirring keeping it from burning. The smell of seasoned crag and potatoes has her stomach rumbling with a force that, in her mind, is worse than thunder, but it isn’t time to eat yet. They’re still waiting for dad to come back._

_Yda is sitting at the single table in their tent, cleaning her sword and mumbling under her breath. Between hunting, cooking, and the constant visits from Ala Mhigan soldiers, she has been stressed lately. They want to take her dad away, she knows. They ask for his help and say that other people need him too._

_She doesn’t want her dad to leave, but if people need help, and he can help them, then shouldn’t he go?_

_It’s confusing to think about, so she decides not to think of it. Better to train, and play, and learn what she can from Yda. Even if Yda sometimes forgets that she’s there._

_“I’m back, girls!”_

_At her father’s voice, she drops the spoon and bolts out of their tent. Behind her, Yda loudly scolds her for leaving the soup unattended. She ignores her sister in favor of attempting to tackle her father. He catches her, of course, lifting her up with a laugh and the ease of a man who has spent years training as a warrior._

_“Oh, you’re getting faster every day. Yda is going to have to up her training if she wants to keep up with you,” Curtis Hext says as he hugs her tightly. His hugs are the best hugs, and she tries to match them by squeezing him as hard as she can. Her arms are so tiny that she doesn’t think he feels it much, though._

_“Maybe in ten more years, I’ll worry about it,” Yda scoffs from the tent entrance._

_She sticks her tongue out at her sister._

_“Ha! I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Yda. But we can argue about it over dinner.” Her dad sighs, and his voice loses all trace of levity. “Afterwards, however, I’ve news to share.”_

_Unsettled by the change in tone, she tightens her hug and concentrates on the smell of leather, dirt, and spiced mead that is so familiar to her. She has a feeling that her dad is going to be gone a lot more often, and she is going to hold him as long as he will let her, until he leaves again._

She takes another deep breath, reminds herself that she is _Fordola_ , and she is nineteen, and she has never had a damned sister to miss, and she grew up with a mother, and her father was always there until the Mhigans killed him. She comes to her senses easily, but the painful, lingering nostalgia for a time barely remembered is harder to shake off.

The emotions that resonate with her always are.

“...I’m going to mix these potions in the drink. You don’t have to take them, but they _will_ help.”

Hext doesn’t wait for, or expect her to, answer. The commander is always quick to take her leave when she notices the visions starting. Whether it is to avoid her past being seen, or to avoid causing further pain, none can say.

( _It’s assuredly the latter, but she’ll die before giving Hext that much credit out loud.)_

The door to her cell opens.

‘ _Don’t do it, Fordola.’_

Light footsteps walk away.

‘ _Don’t give in._ ’

A foot stomps and the rustle of an arm being lifted in a salute is followed by a crisp, “Commander.”

‘ _Rhalgr strike me as a fool!_ ’

“Crag claw soup!” she exclaims abruptly. Silence follows her forced shout, almost painful in its tension, but she’s already gone this far. Might as well finish it. “It’s what Yda used to make.”

One second.

Two.

Three.

‘ _Someone, please, kill me now._ ’

Four.

“...Thank you.” The words are soft, and immediately wiped away by the sound of the door closing, but she knows that they’re going to haunt her more than any Echo induced vision. Just as that old man's words do.

Alone once again, she covers her face with her hands and lets out a long, tired groan. “Gods, I’m an idiot.”

Then she drags the plate over with her foot and drinks the potion laced juice. If she’s going to be forced to endure Hext’s presence so often, she might as well get something useful out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way more fun writing Fordola than I expected.


	5. Conrad Kemp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling back to the Reach to prepare for Operation Rhalgr's Beacon, Conrad muses on the return of the wayward Hext

“Breathe _underwater_? Do you take me for a bloody fool?”

“You’ll believe crabs bigger than a griffon, but not that? Hmph. I’ll prove it when we get back home!”

It’s impossible not to smile as he watches Lyse and M’naago argue ahead of him. The task of rebuilding the Reach and freeing their countrymen from labor camps over the months had been arduous enough to -mostly- distract them from their grief. Their relative success did even more to _heal_ the gaping wound left in the hearts of all who survived the massacre.

But if there was one worry that never strayed far from M’naago’s -or his own- mind, it was that of the fate of Lyse Hext. She had left to fight the same fight in a different, far off land. News of the Scions had been difficult to come by, though General Aldynn made a point to pass on every scrap he was given.

_“I want to help our friends there, and make sure nothing like this ever happens again.”_

With every victory and every loss, for every person freed from labor camps and every soldier lost, during every night and every day, they wondered and worried.

When he had first heard of Yda Hext and her need to escape Eorzea, his first and foremost thought was of recruiting her. That name, Hext, it carried a weight behind it that few others did. Even after two decades, it brought to mind _change_ and _hope_ and _victory_. All things that the Resistance badly needed. Morale was low, their numbers lower, and hope a thing of the past; in Hext, he saw an opportunity to change that.

A symbol of the past. An opportunity for the future. Of course he asked her to join the Resistance.

She said no, and he didn’t fully understand.

It was obvious she wanted to. She threw herself into helping wherever she was needed, and trained with the soldiers whenever she wasn’t working. Clever in her own way, and strong enough to earn the respect of veteran soldiers, it took very little time for her to be considered one of their own, Hext or not.

And she could _talk_ to people. She sat with older soldiers, knowing the pain of having lost more than any person should -a mother, a father, a sister, a mentor, countless friends- yet still enduring. She trained with the new bloods, the hope and dream of a free Gyr Abania still burning bright in their hearts as she inspired and frightened them with her strength. She fought alongside them all, crushing imperials and beasts until her limbs bled and bruised, then pushed harder.

She had no interest in being a leader, only in helping. She was too new, too green for their people to consider following her to that extent, but one by one their eyes began to follow her, and they were livelier in her presence. None more so than M’naago.

( _M’naago watches Yda from a distance, fully ignoring the conversation concerning supply logistics that she is supposed to be a part of. Her expression is half fond, half disappointed; an odd shift from her usual amused exasperation when dealing with the young Scion._

_Meffrid rolls his eyes after failing to capture the hunter’s attention. “By Rhalgr, lass. Staring won’t change a damn thing.” He pulls a flask from his belt and abruptly shoves it in M’naago’s face, startling her out of her thoughts. “Here. Some liquid courage, to save us all from your pining.”_

_“...Huh? My...my.” M’naago stutters, then turns a red so bright it rivals Yda’s greaves for its luminosity. “_ What _? NO. I am not!”_

_Meffrid’s response is a condescending hum, and he himself can’t help but doubt his subordinate’s protest. There aren’t many other things that explain M’naago’s constant scrutiny of Yda Hext since the woman arrived: scrutiny that started as suspicious and turned into respect with surprising speed._

_“I just. She. I asked her to stay!”_

_“Ah. So you already confessed and were rejected.”_

_Poor M’naago. Matters of the heart are never easy to deal with._

_“To stay! For the! Resistance!” she growls out through gritted teeth, emphasising her words by pounding a clenched fist on the table._

_The teasing continues, until it is eventually explained that Yda had rejected the second request to join the Resistance because she has things left undone in Eorzea, and Yda was nothing if not loyal. It’s the same answer he was given the first time, but, unlike M’naago, he doesn’t think it’s the_ whole _truth. But for now, it will have to do._ )

Before Lyse returned to Eorzea, he extended the offer again, and made sure she knew that it would remain open. He had hope, blind hope, that the girl would return as she so clearly wanted to.

“Commander!”

Three soldiers appear from the cliffs past the Velodyna waters: scouts deployed before he left and the other half of their escort. Honest Sparrow, the squad leader, reports their findings while the other two fall behind them.

“Oh, you’re a Gridania refugee!”

The man in question, a newer recruit by the name of Adalag, falters at Lyse’s observation. Honest Sparrow sighs quietly. Adalag, like many of the new recruits, has not had an easy time settling at the Reach, and the tension between the refugees of various areas, rescued laborers, and veteran soldiers has done little to help things.

Adalag looks away from Lyse after clearing his throat. “I. Yes, I was-”

“I would recognize Irreone’s ribbons anywhere!” Lyse interrupts, ignoring his hesitance cheerfully. “Though I don’t usually see so many on one person...”

To his astonishment, the young man immediately grabs the half a dozen purple and white ribbons dangling from his shoulder and... _blushes._ “My niece!” he blurts out. “She uh, thought that, well, more luck is better. It’s, uh, silly, I know, but she was...worried.”

Lyse giggles. “Put that way, it makes me wish I brought my own. I have some stored away too. It doesn’t feel right to throw them away when, you know.”

“When so few people go out of their way to be kind,” Adalog finishes tonelessly. “Aye, I know.”

Sighing heavily, Lyse clasps her hands behind her back, looks up at the sky, and begins taking large, exaggerated steps. “Maaaaan. Now I want some of her pastries. It’s been ages since I had time to stop by.”

“Now _that_ ,” Adalog says with a smile, “is a true crime.”

“I know! When all this is over, I just _have_ to go back and get a box full of food. You’ll see, Naago. You haven’t lived until you’ve had pastries from Irreone!”

M’naago, slightly put out at losing Lyse’s attention, eyes her doubtfully. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“...You of all people ought to appreciate good food, Naago.”

“Hey! What are you trying to say!”

The rest of their walk home was filled with a cheer that had been missing with Lyse’s absence. It is a cheer that made the weary old ruins -and weary old people- feel a little more like home, and having her back truly eases his heart and soul.

( _“If you only want her for her last name, then don’t bother with further attempts to recruit her. She is worth far more than that, though she doesn’t yet know it.”_ )

He hadn’t listened to Papalymo’s words back then, determined as he was to prop up the elusive Hext as a symbol that their people could look to.

And he is still determined to recruit her to this day; but now he knows that the soldiers of Rhalgr’s Reach will care more for Lyse, with all her heart and strength and hope, than they ever could for an empty symbol. Many of the survivors of the massacre already do, and, listening to the conversation behind him, he is certain that it won’t take long for the rest to follow suit.

“Finally!” Lyse exclaims as their journey ends. “It feels good to be home!”

Before all that, however, he has to make the girl see it for herself.


	6. Hien Rijin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the midst of war, Hien and Lyse find a way to lighten the mood (and give the rest of the Alliance leaders reason to question their sanity)

“As for the state of the battlefield...”

He tries not to sigh, or fidget, or grimace as his injuries ache. His years of training with Gosetsu means that he is well accustomed to aches and pains. Hiding them, too, as his father never let him live down the times he failed to stay awake during lessons or dinner.

Though he does think that both would forgive him for failing to keep his composure as he awaits the start of the meeting with the other alliance leaders. He is, after all, recovering from wounds received from Zenos himself. Or whoever was parading around in his skin.

Their current meeting area is not so far off from the battlefield that they cannot hear the occasional explosion, or breathe air free of the ash and smoke. There is constant motion outside their tent, audible even through the layers of heavy Gyr Abanian fabric that is used for cover. At least the sounds and awful atmosphere help keep him awake. It isn’t the silverest of linings, but he’s willing to take it after the week he has had.

“Is the food not to your taste, Lord Hien?”

At the question, he offers the Elder Seedseer, Kan-E-Senna, a weary smile. The woman has an aura of kindness that is greater even than Cirina’s, and she is a good friend of Lyse’s, so he takes no offense to the laughter -or perhaps mischief- that is shining in her eyes. As a healer herself, she is no doubt aware of the particular problem that is currently plaguing him.

“I’m afraid that after being forced to drink an...indescribably vile mixture of potions by the healers, there is very little food in the world at this moment that _is_ to my taste.”

The Admiral, too dignified to laugh out loud, suffers a sudden but brief coughing fit. Clearing her throat, she smiles sympathetically. Given her former occupation as a pirate -according to Lyse- he has no doubt that the Admiral has endured her fair share of life-threatening injuries, along with the equally painful medicines required for healing. “Vile is certainly an apt description, if not an understatement in many cases.”

Kan-E-Senna smiles at their complaints, but there is a twist to her grin that is _undeniably_ mischievous. "In my experience," she begins in a faux casual tone, "it is only the most...troublesome of patients that are given such undiluted potions."

Neither he nor the Admiral dare dignify that with a response. They’re well aware that embarrassment will be the end result of any attempted arguments.

Lord Aymeric, for his part, watches the banter with a smile as he sips at his tea. That is a man who remains uncomfortable with his presence amongst the leaders; a strange thing for him, a foreigner, to note. Stranger still that he cannot relate. The Scions had given him a summary of the leaders before he departed Doma the first time, and he had fully expected _himself_ to be the most ill-at-ease.

As the newest and most unknown person, he had planned to be little more than a brightly dressed ornament, doling out his opinion only on matters that needed his input. But what he had failed to account for was, of all things, _Lyse_. He had been aware that she works closely with Raubahn, as they both have a seat on the council that governs Gyr Abania, but he had not known that she worked with Kan-E-Senna during her years as a Scion. It would not be an exaggeration to say that she is good friends with them both, and they, in turn, are friendly with the Admiral. Between Lyse's friendship and the camaraderie born of being victims of Garlean aggression, it took very little time for him to grow comfortable with their presence and personalities.

( _“He’s my second best Doman friend!”_

_“Oh? Second? And who has taken the illustrious position of first?”_

_“Yugiri, obviously.”_

_“Ah. Now that, I cannot argue with. Second to our Yugiri is quite an honor!”_ )

Aymeric, though never _excluded_ , simply did not have that strong a friendship with the other leaders. He was genial enough, and had little issue fighting alongside them all, but outside of battle there was a subtle separation wrought by years of Ishgardian silence.

“Phew! Made it in time!”

Lyse, wearing surplus green slops and a plain sleeveless black shirt, rushes into the tent. A plate of food is in her hands, though how she can eat is beyond him. As far as he remembers, they were prescribed the same medicines. His eyes stray from the food to the bandaged hand that holds the plate; the very same hand that cracked Zeno’s mask. Seeing it reminds him of the fear, the determination, the _desperation_ of that battle.

Reminds him of being chained and wondering if his life was soon to end. Reminds him of the absolute horror of realizing that Lyse had rescued him by taking his place.

His heart begins to race at the memories, and he forces himself to look away.

“You needn’t have rushed. There is plenty of time before we officially start the meeting, and the other two have yet to arrive,” Kan-E says with a light laugh.

“...I meant in time to avoid being caught by my chirurgeon.”

Kan-E immediately loses her cheer, adopting an unimpressed expression and crossing her arms. On any other person, he would call her expression a pout; with Kan-E, who is rarely less than friendly, it makes him feel as though he has been thoroughly scolded.

“They worry too much!” Lyse exclaims in defense. Taking the empty seat next to him, she waves her hand dismissively. “I’m mostly fine now anyway, and I’m going to the Reach for a few days. I can recover better there. They should save those potions for people who _really_ need them.”

It is an excellent argument that Kan-E cannot in good conscience disagree with, and it is one he resolves to make use of if they try to foist those disgusting potions on him before his final departure.

Before the conversation veers into territory that _can_ invite Kan-E’s censure, he leans over to pick up the box he had brought with him. Lyse’s attention -and that of the others- shifts to him when he sits it upon the table. “You’re officially being put on temporary leave then? Excellent.”

Lyse starts when he pushes it toward her. “Wait. For me? Are. Are you sure? Why?”

Much as he wants to start laughing outright, he manages to give her the friendliest, most genuine smile he can muster. “Oh, I’m certain. Though your tour of the Enclave had to be put off…”

Lyse lifts the top of the box off.

“Ahem. Certain residents of the Enclave-”

She tilts her head and pulls the gift out of the box, holding it up at eye level.

“- wished to give you a memento-”

She blinks. “...It’s.”

“Heh. Of your time -hehe- in our lands.”

“A _sheep_?” Lyse says, face twisting into an expression that might politely be called disgust.

Unable to hold it in any longer, he loses himself to the laughter he had been holding back. “It was. A valuable. Learning. Experience,” he chokes out. Attempts to, anyway, but he is laughing too much to breathe properly, and can barely see through his tears, so he isn’t sure his words were coherent.

To make matters worse, Lyse had joined him in his laughter, fueling his own until they are both incapacitated and half resting on the table.

It is to this scene that Raubahn and Pipin arrive, and they are both seated by the time they get themselves under control. Mostly. Lyse’s face is red and now streaked with tears, and he is certain that his own is no better, but they have at least managed to catch their breaths.

Raubahn clears his throat lightly, unable to hide his confusion. From the cautious gazes of the others, they are likely thinking them to be in the middle of a stress-induced breakdown. They might not be entirely wrong. “...A sheep?” Raubahn asks hesitantly.

Lyse huffs, breath stuttering from the remnants of laughter. “A sheep.”

He nods sagely in agreement. “A sheep.”

Half a beat of silence, and then they break out into giggles. Their peers shake their heads, sigh, and give up on receiving an explanation in favor of returning to their meals. He can’t find it in himself to apologize to them; not when it has been far too long since he laughed so freely.

Still chuckling, Lyse lifts up the sheep and shakes it vigorously. “I should have punched his stupid arrogant face in more than once,” she says with a growl.

Though they have no knowledge of the context, Raubahn, Merlwyb, and Pipin give her approving looks. Kan-E and Aymeric, however, are slightly more alarmed at the violent words and violent actions that accompany them.

He raises his eyebrows and hums, impressed at the declaration. He may not care for Magnai’s odd and abrasive personality, but there is no denying his martial prowess. “How did you manage it at all?”

The question earns him a fierce smirk. One that makes him remember that, for all that Lyse is friendly, cheerful, and an overthinker, she is also one of the strongest warriors he has ever met. “Well it _was_ the Naadam, and during the Naadam…”

“All are equal,” he finishes, grinning just as fiercely.

At that moment, he feels his stomach growl. Potion induced nausea and a long bout of laughter is an unwise combination, and he isn’t sure if he is hungry or if he wants to throw up. For the sake of comfort, he settles for sipping at the plain juice that one of the Resistance soldiers swore would settle his stomach while Lyse stores her sheep in its box.

“I’ll leave him with Naago at the command tent,” Lyse says, a wry grin on her lips. “He’ll be the perfect reminder that, no matter how many meetings, or how many emergencies, or how many _merchants_ I have to deal with, there is always someplace worse to be.”

He coughs and splutters, choking on his drink but somehow managing to get the cup to the table without spilling it. Lyse’s face is buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking from laughter that she valiantly attempts to keep quiet for the sake of his pride.

Not that she has any chance of succeeding when the tent is far too quiet without their chatter. It matters not, however. He is not so arrogant that he can’t appreciate some amusement at his own expense; especially after all they have been through.

Raubahn kindly waits for his coughing fit to subside before calling the meeting to order. While the others give their reports, he debates informing Lyse that some of his people truly _have_ asked him for permission to present her with a gift. Not for her role in Doma’s liberation, but for her actions in the battle against Zenos, which did not escape his people’s notice. Willingly trading her life for his own? However unnecessary in the end, his people will not soon forget that decision.

Eventually, he resolves to keep it a secret. The stuffed sheep is a good present for Lyse, but it will take time to craft something worthy of _Commander Hext_ , true friend of Doma and protector of its lord.

It wouldn’t do for him to ruin the surprise, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Hien isn't from Gyr Abania, but it takes PLACE in Gyr Abania so I can count it. And anyway it was fun so I have no regrets.


	7. M'naago Rahz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M'naago and Lyse are there to support each other, before and after the Battle of Ala Mhigo

**~Before the Battle of Ala Mhigo~**

The walk to Recompense is short, but never fails to unnerve her. The tunnel is dark, cool, and silent in a way that is somber at best and creepy at worst; an atmosphere that isn't helped by the faint light of a burning candle that bounces off the walls, giving the illusion that they're shifting.

The light flickers, then becomes brighter.

' _So I'm not the only one here._ ’

So she hopes, because otherwise she will have to reconsider her stance that spirits and ghosts are only tales meant to scare young children. Paranoia tells her to lighten her steps so she won’t be noticed by anything unnatural; kindness tells her to make some noise so she doesn’t frighten whoever else has come to speak to the fallen.

The light gets brighter. She swallows, shudders, exhales slowly.

Her next step echoes in the tunnel.

To her relief, there is, in fact, a real live person in the cemetery. “Lyse,” she huffs into the silence, as if her heart isn’t pounding and she hadn’t been trying to recall how one is supposed to fight ghosts a second ago. “You should be sleeping.”

‘ _We both should be, but hopefully she doesn’t point that out.’_

Lyse -her friend, her _commander_ \- glances at her and shrugs. Her usual smile is gone, as it has been since...since Conrad, and even the fierce determination she showed when arguing for her right to scout the castrum is absent now. Here, standing before the dead, she is nothing but tired, young, and burdened. “I will when I’m done.”

Next to Lyse, there is a pile of candles, matches, and other random items spilling out of a canvas bag; more than enough to leave one at every soldier’s grave.

“Some of those buried here don’t have anyone to carry their memory. It’s...probably silly, but I just.” Lyse explains with a shake of her head. “Even though I never met some of them, I want them to know that we’re still carrying their dream. We’re still fighting, and we’re almost there. We’re almost free.”

Lighting candles for all the fallen, taking it upon herself to carry the weight of their dream on her shoulders. It’s noble; inspiring in a quiet, understated way that is so typical of Lyse that she has to fight tears.

"I'll help." Her voice wobbles and cracks, but she doesn’t try to hide it. Lyse has never judged her for her emotions. Teased her at times, but never judged.

Even with the two of them, it takes half a bell to place and light the candles. Though retrieving the bodies of fallen comrades from the field has always been a difficult, if not downright impossible task, the Recompense had steadily filled during the years that the Resistance occupied the Reach. After Zenos’ ambush, well, they had to add new sections to the crypt in order to fit the bodies of their murdered countrymen.

They work in relative silence, but as they reach the back, Lyse begins muttering names and prayers. The random items -charms, coins, snacks, jewelry, and flowers- are left at the graves of soldiers she knew and fought beside during her months at the Reach when she was still using Yda’s name.

It isn’t a surprise that Lyse memorized the name of those lost, or knew the specific items each would appreciate being left at their grave. If there is anything to be said about the woman, it’s that she can make friends with anyone or anything. Lyse took the time to talk to every soldier: listening to their pain, and the few happy memories they had. She had shared stories of her own, of course, and it didn’t take long for the soldiers of the Reach to consider her a friend, peer, and fellow soldier.

Especially…

Staring at the last grave, Lyse by her side, the silence is suddenly overwhelming.

 _Conrad_.

Five years since she joined the Resistance, and three since she began working with Conrad, and never, _never_ would she have called him reckless. His risks were calculated, planned to the last detail and always with the grim awareness that their numbers were limited.

Until _Lyse_.

She hadn’t understood why, back then. She thought she had, after the scouting mission that saw Lyse take out an entire patrol to protect a single soldier, and an innocent child. She thought she saw the leader that Conrad had wanted, and was willing to risk their men for. But looking back at it now, she realizes that Conrad’s actions had been nothing more than a desperate gamble. He hadn’t known anything about Lyse at all. Maybe a part of him hadn’t cared. Meffrid had said that the Hext name would serve as a banner for others to rally to, but banners didn’t need a personality. The Resistance had been desperate, and Griffin’s actions had made it clear that the people wanted something more than each other and a dream to believe in.

The Hext name had more weight to it than Griffin’s did, even if the one it belonged to was largely unknown to them.

He trained her, of course. He showed Lyse what it was to lead, and though Lyse never particularly _wanted_ to be a leader, she was a quick learner. Not exactly a natural, but not untalented. Thanks to her years as a Scion, she was familiar with battle, and her time helping the Adders gave her experience in military matters; it was just a matter of honing and adding to her knowledge. And when he wasn’t “letting” her be involved in their strategy meetings, he was sending her off on tasks that required working with groups of soldiers.

When Conrad had confided in her that he wanted Lyse to someday take his place, she had stared at him in confusion and said, “ _I already knew you wanted her to be a leader. You made it kind of obvious, you know_.”

He had looked out to the Reach, then, with a weariness she rarely ever saw him express. More than a little regret, too. _“No, M’naago. I don’t mean as the spokesperson for the Resistance, or as a symbol to draw people in. I admit, that was my sole intention in the beginning. It was unfair of me, perhaps, but I thought it was what we needed. But now that I’ve seen her for herself, worked with her, fought with her, learned what she is capable of, I know that the_ Reach _needs her. As much as she needs the Reach.”_

So she was well prepared, emotionally, for Lyse to take Conrad’s position. She just didn’t think it would be so soon, or as a final bequeathal while Conrad breathed his last. He was supposed to be leading them into the final battle, was supposed to be there in the aftermath, was supposed to show Lyse all the tricks of commanding Rhalgr’s Reach when he finally had enough of fighting.

‘ _But he isn’t here. Not anymore. Just like Meffrid, and all the others.’_

Her vision becomes watery and her throat tight. “We’ll see this through, Old Bear.” It hurts to breathe, the grief she has been holding back threatening to overtake her completely. “No...no matter what.”

It isn’t a proper eulogy, or inspiring by any measure, but it’s the most she can muster through her tears and gasps. Hands rest on her shoulders, then wrap around her so tightly she nearly gasps from the force. Far from being painful, however, the strong hold is comforting in a way that nothing else in their life is right now.

“No matter what,” Lyse echoes fiercely. “ _I swear it_.”

There’s too much they need to do and too much resting on them surviving tomorrow to give in to their grief now. But, at least for this moment, they can take comfort from each other.

**~After the Battle of Ala Mhigo~**

She should have known she would find Lyse brooding in the Recompense when she ought to be celebrating. The graves around her are covered in flowers or trinkets, and there are no small amount of cups bearing alcohol. Clearly there have been plenty of mourners coming to assure the lost loved ones that they finally succeeded, but they have all gone to celebrate now, leaving Lyse alone in front of Conrad's grave.

“They wouldn’t begrudge you some rest, after everything. They would have encouraged it, actually. Forcefully.”

Lyse looks back at her and smiles, but there’s something off about it. About _her_.

‘ _Brooding again. Definitely._ ’

“I just needed somewhere to think for a bit.”

‘ _If I ask her what’s wrong, will she talk to me? ...Probably not. Maybe in another day or two._ ’

“Just don’t hide away forever. We’re only allowed a few days to rest before we start drowning in meetings and paperwork." Just thinking about all the work that awaits them is enough to give her a headache and a desire for alcohol.

“Right. Of co-wait. You’re letting me _stay_?”

She snorts, thinking those words to be a joke. “...What do you mean, _letting_ you? Where else is our commander supposed to be?”

But Lyse only stares at her with wide, alarmed eyes, wringing her hands and pouting in a way that brings to mind a particularly fluffy baby griffin begging for a pet.

‘ _No…_ ’

“...Did you...think we were going to send you back to _Eorzea_?”

“Well. I mean. I just. It’s. You know. We, uh. We won. And _I_ was just. A, um. A spokesperson. Until we...won. Which. We did.”

‘ _Seriously?_ ’

Lyse is babbling but none of the words are registering.

‘ _You’ve got to be pulling my tail._ ’

"Not that I want to! Go away, I mean. I do, really, want to stay. As _anything_ you need. I just wanted to. To um. _Ask_ if-"

" _You're our commander,_ " she snarls, interrupting the flood of words. “You’re one of us! I don't know about how the Scions operate, but don't you dare think that we're going to let go of one of our own that easily!”

Lyse flinches, wrings her hands tighter, and feigns an intense interest in the dirt floor. Softly, so quietly a ghost might as well be speaking, she asks, "You _want_ me to stay?"

She almost grabs Lyse by the shoulders and gives her a good shake because _clearly_ she had been hit on the head one too many times, but godsdammit. Her friend looks so. So pathetic and scared.

_‘By Rhalgr. She’s serious.’_

Taking a deep, deep, deep breath, she crosses her arms and tries very hard not to throw something. “You said that winning our freedom is the first and easiest part. I didn’t take you to be the type who quits right when things really start to get tough.”

The laugh Lyse lets out is a stuttering, forced thing. “I. No.” She shakes her head and finally looks up. Her smile is shaky, but the fire in her eyes is familiar. Comforting. Inspiring, even. Or would be, if she weren’t contemplating smacking Lyse’s head with her bow. “Of course I’m willing to keep fighting for Gyr Abania with you. With words or fists. Whatever it takes. For as long as it takes.”

“Good!” Her voice breaks and she curses her traitorous body for being needlessly emotional.

‘ _Why do I want to cry now? Gods, get it together, Naago!_ ’

“So. Now that we’ve established that you aren’t allowed to leave, you can tell Conrad and Meffrid all about the meetings you'll have to deal with now that we’re free. _I_ have to go meet Orella for a checkup before she hunts me down herself.”

Once she makes it out of the tunnel, she stomps the rest of the way to the Barber’s. Is she angry, irritated, upset, or exasperated? She isn’t sure which emotion she feels the most, or which one she _wants_ to feel. If there’s anything she has learned about Lyse, it’s that it’s impossible to stay upset with her, but really? _Really?_

“Ah, M’naago. It’s about. ...Time. ...Is something wro-”

“THAT FEATHERBRAINED IDIOT THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO _SEND HER OFF_. JUST LIKE THAT.”

“This is an _infirmary_ ,” Orella responds sharply.

“BUT SHE-”

Orella scowls, grabs her arm, and drags her onto a stool with a strength that rivals any trained soldier. “You can complain about whatever nonsensical idea Lyse got into her head this time as much as you want, as long as you _don’t disturb my patients_ ,” she hisses slowly, with extra emphasis on her last word.

“Sorry,” she says contritely.

Not with enough repentance to fully soothe a still glaring Orella, but luckily she isn’t so annoyed that she gives an extra poke or two.

“Now what has Lyse done this time?” Orella asks, unbothered by the show of emotion as always.

She huffs, still irritated at how _dense_ Lyse can be. Just how low is her self-esteem? Honestly! “She was in the Recompense brooding over whether or not she had a right to ask for permission to stay."

That earns her raised eyebrows and an incredulous, “ _What_? Why would she need. No, nevermind. It’s Lyse.” Shaking her head, she sighs and adds, “At least she has you to vehemently disabuse her of such ridiculous notions.”

“Hmph. I told her that we don’t let go of our own that easily. And I’ll remind her every day if I have to, until she never doubts her place among us again.”

The proclamation is met with a soft laugh. “Though it’s reassuring to see you so eager to support our commander, you may want to tone down your intensity. Y’shtola might start to consider you as competition.”

Confused at the change in topic, she squints at Orella. “Competition? For what?”

“Oh, nothing. Now, you may have healed from your battlefield injuries, but I’ve a potion I want you to take with your food...”

Lyse finds her later, to share that she has decided to leave the Scions. Aware of how difficult that decision must have been, she can only give Lyse a hug in support. The Scions and their work have been the most important thing in Lyse’s life for six years, and are the closest thing to a home that she has had in those years.

But the part of her that can’t help but be so very selfish is overjoyed that Lyse has finally made her choice; that, finally, _Lyse has come home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I wrote with M'naago, the more I realized that SB didn't give us NEARLY enough of her. She's perfect and I love her.


End file.
